Hidden Confessions
by RandomRyu
Summary: The truth was hidden from Cosette all of her life. Not until all of her parental figures died did she learn about how her adoptive fathers met, how her mother lived before she died a grief filled death. All of this was explained in a letter that was given to her by her Papa when he was dying, and when she opens it almost a year from then, she learns the truth about the past.


Again, I ask my parents where they met and how. And again, Father makes a sour face. Papa shakes his head silently.

"We'll tell you when you're older," comes his simple, sullen answer along with that kind, promising, though depressing smile that he always wears when I'm upset or he bids me and Father a good day.

I've asked them this question many times over the years, ever since I was a little girl. I've asked my friends how their parents met. My Father, how his parents came to know each other (He didn't tell me). Papa, when I asked him, he just shook his head and said that he forgot (I believed him). I even asked my mother when I was small and her hair was falling out, a skeleton that was barely alive. She could only shake her head and cry.

For some reason, I expected a romantic answer whenever I asked anyone.

Oh, we met at a friend's wedding. The movies. A bookstore. The park on a bright summer day. Nothing romantic like that.

Until I was all grown up and married, I had no knowledge of my adoptive parents' past nor childhood. And to this day, I'm still in the shadows about how they were raised.

My Father, when I asked how he was raised, his usually stoic expression turned into a sour one. Papa, when I asked him about his general history, about the thick white scars marring his wrists, his positive smile faded and he pulled down his sleeves. My biological mother, I never asked her a single thing about her past. I only asked questions such as "Where's Daddy?" or," Why is your hair falling out?" Or," Why do you look so sad?"

At one point, I asked my friends about their parents, how did they meet?

"They abandoned me, I wouldn't know." Marius sighed, fidgeting with the ends of his sweater sleeves.

"They kicked me out, I don't give a damn how they met." Grantaire explained bitterly, holding his head in his hands.

"Oh, I don't know where my ma and pa is." The smallest of the group, Gavroche, the age of only twelve, said. He scratched the side of his head, causing his grown-out blonde hair to fall into his eyes. Poor kid, he's only twelve, going on thirteen, and he's already house hopping (or dorm hopping, in this case) and avoiding orphanages from taking him in and distributing him to families that could be worse than his own. I could have ended up like that. Roaming the streets like a rat and relying on sympathetic teenagers that understand what he's going through. We accept him. We're a family. A tight-knit, problematic family that all have our own issues with life. There's no assigned mother or father (or father and father or mother and mother, for that matter).

When I was a teenager, that's when I lost my Father to suicide. Even after I lost my Papa, I never learned about either of their childhoods. All I know is that they could have been rough. Unsafe. Dark. All judging by the look on their faces whenever I brought up the topic.

My Papa, he explained how he and Father met in a letter he gave to me on my wedding night as the life drained from him in front of the altar, in front of my wedding party's shocked eyes.

"Read this after I pass." He said, passing it to me with a shaky hand. "It is the past that you have been yearning to know."

The secrets that were kept from me a large majority of my life.

It took me weeks to even rip open the envelope and peer inside.

It took me almost a year into me and Marius' marriage for me to finally pull out the letter and read it.

It took me days to get through the pages and pages of confessions written in that neat, loopy handwriting. Through the secrets that were kept from me. The truth that was hidden.

I wept every time I even glanced at the envelope. Picking it up and reading it once more was heartbreaking.

With this envelope of confessions, I figured out how my adoptive parents met, and how my mother went through life before she died.

They met in a jail. A prison, for that matter. Papa had stolen, it was a single event. Father was a guard when he was younger and more youthful. Before he had stress bags under his eyes and he had to shave his beard almost every day. Before his hair started to gray.

Papa kept trying to escape. Originally, his time was supposed to be five years. Five years for a petty theft. Though, it wasn't because he just merely stole. It was because he was framed for a murder. Framed for a crime that he didn't commit, and shoved into that grimy cell where the real murderer should have been rotting in. He didn't deserve this.

Nineteen years, he explained in the letter. He was in prison for nineteen years. He tried to escape two times total, and he was caught running and out of breath both times, only to be dragged back to that Hell and forced to work and eat terrible, non-nutritional food. To deal with the aggressiveness of the other inmates. To be beaten and scarred by chains and brutal fights.

For these nineteen years, Father watched him waste away behind the rusting bars. Get beaten by other inmates (though he won most of the times, he explained). Pushed around by other guards and forced to toil in the blazing heat or work in the grueling, disgusting kitchen.

Then, he went on to explain how he was on parole and how he broke it. How he escaped from that life for good, changed his name and moved to another location. How he met Father once again. How they were enemies, to friends, to lovers. From lovers, to proposing. The rest of their life until Father had commit suicide and Papa passed to natural causes (which stress of losing Father only sped up, made him look older and exhausted), they were engaged. Never had they planned a wedding, though I heard them speaking of such a thing from time to time, but rarely. I wish I could have witnessed them being wed.

Papa explained how him and Father settled down, how they had to get used to living like lovers instead of prisoner and prison guard. Convict and police officer. Love, instead of hate. Peace, instead of war.

He explained how it took the longest time for Father to say those three meaningful words. How he had to get used to kindness upon him. To get used to hugs and cuddling. Kisses and spooning. But, when he finally said those words, Papa said he was the happiest man on Earth.

He explained how they knew my mother and visited her in the hospital when she was dying of cancer. How Papa brought her flowers and brought her treats to brighten up her day. He mentioned how she asked to see me, though she was unable to since I was placed in a foster home for the time being, since I had no other shelter and I couldn't sleep in the hospital near my mother. She had no idea that I was being abused, and when she died, her last words was of her asking to see me in the imminent future. But, obviously, I never saw her and she never saw me.

I remember the first time that I met Father and Papa. I remember them giving me a certain porcelain doll that I named Catherine, and that I still have to this day. She's sitting on a shelf in the living room, watching over me and Marius as we go about our everyday life. Watching us grow and mature, and maybe even have a child one day and raise him or her. Maybe, if I do have a child, I'll name them after my mother. Or one of my fathers. But there's no way in Hell I'm naming them after those Thenardiers that abused me when I was small.

The rest of the letter was Papa saying how amazing of a daughter I was. How I helped him and Father smile when times got rough. How all three of us shared laughs and they watched me mature and grow over the years, teaching me about life and what to watch out for as I went through it. He said in his own words how Father loved me, even though he could be strict sometimes and come off as stubborn. Again, he explained how Father had trouble dealing with affection in any form, and how he had to learn to give it himself. To speak softly, to compliment someone. To tell them a simple "Have a good day!" But in time, he learned. But he still had inner turmoil that was never righted or fixed.

This was the end of the letter. Papa wrote his name in that loopy, cursive font that looked like something from a celebrity signing. Even though, it had that slightest wave to it, the lines not perfect and round as usual. The ink was a bit smudged, and I couldn't help thinking those smudges were caused by falling tears.

After I was finished reading through these confessions until the paper was crumpled and the ink smudging even more, I put it back in the envelope and stuffed it into a box of old things from my childhood. From my Father and Papa. Catherine, up on the shelf. Old uniform jackets and silly looking police hats piled on top of long coats (which were Papa's, he was quite fashionable), old, worn shoes and books that were cracking and splitting at the spine from being read so often placed in the box with care. Now, the crumpled envelope full of family secrets was placed on top of all of this history, looking new and neat compared to the dust addled fabric and coffee stained books.

Closing the lid, I pushed it back under the queen sized bed to be saved for another time when I wanted to visit the past again. To revisit my childhood, no matter how upsetting or rough, cheerful or pleasant.

With that, I made my way out into the living room and reached up onto one of the shelves, picking Catherine up gingerly and dusting the cobwebs off of her fancy, worn out maroon dress. Her features were worn and dirty from dragging her around when I was small, little rips in her elegant dress from carrying her through sandboxes and on walks outside. Her hair that dirty blonde color, falling over her petite shoulders and thin from years of brushing and styling under the cream and maroon colored bonnet no her head. Even though she looked so beat up and worn, that miniscule, almost eerie smile blared back at me.

Holding her as if she was a small child of my own, I carried her to the bedroom once more, pulling back the covers of the bed and taking my place under them; pulling them up to my shoulders to shield myself from the cold.

I hugged Catherine tight, allowing the tears to flow freely from my eyes and stain the pillow; my hair spilling over the fabric and surrounding my melancholy, broken expression as I sobbed.

Oh, how I wish I could be a child again. How I wish I could go back to that day that changed my life, where the social worker brought me to my new family with Papa and Father. Before Father jumped off that bridge. Before I was revealed all of these hidden secrets that were kept from me all my life. I wish that I could go back to when my biggest issue was losing my juice box or dropping my ice cream. To revisit those times when me and my fathers went on picnics on warm, golden summer days. Visited the zoo, went to Disney Land.

How I yearn to be an adolescent once more. To be hopeful and carefree.

That night, I fall asleep with my eyes burning hot with tears and the pillow stained with my sorrow, embracing Catherine close so that she's pressed to my chest and forced to hear the pitter-patter of my crestfallen heart.


End file.
